Unnerving touch
by Paul Morphy
Summary: I proceeded with such care! I was a hundred percent mindful of my every move when around her. You can imagine then how surprised I was when, again, after weeks, and again without meaning to, I made her nervous when I touched her.
1. Chapter 1

I didn't notice at first.

As a somewhat clumsy person when it comes to social interaction, it's only natural for me to not notice, to unintentionally ignore other people's nervousness. It happened with Jane, too.

From the day I met her, I had wanted to ask her if her hands had been left with more damage than that scarred tissue. Movement could be decreased when a serious wound was inflicted, after all, and limited movement in any part of the body wasn't good for a detective. But, more than anything, I wanted to ask her about the reason why she had those scars. In both hands, no less. And, yet, even _I_ knew that's not a question you can ask someone to whom you are basically a stranger. So, since I couldn't ask right away, I opted for empirism, and slowly moved my hand toward hers.

It didn't seem like an awful idea (or a _huge_ violation of boundaries) at the time.

She was standing beside me, palms flat on the surface of my desk, eyes and mind focused on the report that sat in front of us. She was doing something akin to flexing her fingers, as if trying to dig them on my desk. By looking at the redish color of her hands, and aware of the tolls that the cold, and the atmospheric pressure that came hand-in-hand with winter, had on scarred tissue as pronounced as hers, it was easy to know she was hurting.

The skin of her scars is less sensitive than the skin on the rest of her hands and arms. I tested it, back then, by tracing the tip of my fingers, very lightly, right on top of the scarred skin of the back of her extended hand, and getting no response; but when I did it, with the same barely-there pressure, right above the start of her wrist I found her hand trembling and, immediately, separating from mine like it was burning hers. I've never been good when it comes to read people's reactions, but there are things that not even oblivious individuals such as myself can disregard.

I learned a very important thing that one time I grazed her skin with the tips of my fingers (and she noticed): Jane Rizzoli didn't like her hands being touched.

The fact that we hadn't know each other well (while bringing her more uneasiness, I'm sure) didn't seem to be the reason since, well, she had no problem with me, for example, putting a hand on her shoulder. If she and I were constant factors in here, it meant her hands, the variable, were the problem.

After the look of pure shock and, dare I say it, panic she shot me once she unconciously put a "safety distance" between us, I backed up in my determination of finding out the story behind those twin scars.

"I could help... With the pain," Jane looked at me, atonished, "I'm a doctor," she probably would have laughed at the idiotic, and obvious comment had she not been busy trying to find a logic reason which could explain why I, someone she barely knew, was thinking about relieving her pain while we should be getting some answers about the girl I had just made an autopsy to.

She excused herself after a minute of weird and forced conversation regarding the case we were working in at that momment, saying with little to no eloquence that she needed to go back up, to her desk, and exitting my office as fast as she could without outright running, heavy boots slowing their pace once she entered the hallway.

I've always had a knack for making people feel uncomfortable because, well, I'm awkward. Funny people make you laugh, and awkward people make you feel uncomfortable. It's a fact, just like two plus two equals four.

In any case, after that day in my office, I didn't come near Jane's hands anymore. Not even when we started spending a little more time together out of work. I wouldn't hand glasses of wine or bottles of beer to her, but rested them on the nearest surface instead. I gave her more space than necessary when we walked side by side, to avoid the slim chance of my hand coliding with the back of hes. If she asked me for change, I would let the coins go and fall into her open palm rather than risk an unwanted contact, fully aware of the fact that between the palm of her hand and the back of it she was specially protective of the former.

I proceeded with such care! I was a hundred percent mindful of my every move when around her. You can imagine then how surprised I was when, again, after weeks, and again without meaning to, I made her nervous when I touched her.

* * *

A/N: It was pretty short (more like a prologue) but I just felt like writing something -anything!- after a month of white, empty papers and screens. Will probably be a short not very "deep" story.

I have the bad habit of writing stuff about series I know very little about; even though I'm totally hooked to Rizzoli & Isles, I haven't even seen the whole first season, but I did read the books. In any case, I'll try to be as faithful to the characters personalities (as they are displayed on the show,not the books) with the limited amount of knowledge I have about them. This is why the story will probably have somewhat OOC Maura, Jane, etc...

I'd like to add that English is not my first language, so if you see any grammatical mistake, or expressions that don't make sense, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know.


	2. Chapter 2

There was something strange in seeing the figure being hit over and over again. So feminine, so petite, so frail-looking. But the figure was anything but frail. The chisel hit hard, leaving to fade a loud, angry sound every time the hammer came down, fast and strong. Drops of sweat slid down the sculptor's face, and yet, the figure remained immobile. His hand trembled with every contact of chisel upon marble; hers didn't. Slowly, just like an identikit, her face changed it's traits from plain generic, to beautifully singular. Even if still rough, without sanding, you could tell how perfect her face would be. You were aware, despite its unfinished state, of the symmetry of her unwrinkled face. The wild hair over her shoulder, not to be moved even by the strongest wind, presented soft curls that only the steel of the chisel could comb.

"Maura!" Jane's voice took me out of my thoughts. She looked frustrated, and had probably been a while trying to catch my attention, "Stop ogling artist guy, and come back here!"

I walked to her, not before giving a last look to the marble figure.

"I was looking at the sculpture, not at him. Although I admit that I find it very arousing when a man's deft with his hands," Jane chocked on air.

"Even when that man's hands are deft at handling a long, hard shaft?" she said quietly, as if fearing someone was spying on us. I had to laugh.

"How you manage to be crude and shy at the same time when talking about sex is beyond me."

"That comment is only crude and sexual if you have your mind in the gutter," yet her voice was still low.

"What gutter?" I cocked my head to the side, and Jane rolled her eyes.

"Nevermind, Maur. C'mon, let's go."

"You should relax, we have plenty of time, after all."

"Well, I'd like to be home to catch the beginning of the match, anyway. And you were taking for-e-ver."

"But don't you find it beautiful? Not the sculptures _per se_ but the whole process of creation of any kind of art."

"I guess it depends. This guy's working process? Totally rocks. Your mother's, however..."

"Jane!"

"She just... _piled up_ _water bottles._ She didn't even make the bottles, Maura! I don't get it," she raised her hands lightly, in a try to tell me she was only being honest, and meant no offense, "Does she even have a process? Because when I was seven and glued bottles together to build rockets I didn't get millions out of it. And my glued bottles _at least_ had a recognizable form."

I couldn't help but smile. Certainly, Jane was the only one that had ever talked about my mother's work from a negative point of view, in front of me, anyway. It was strangely refreshing, especially since I had seen my mother as someone unapproachable, someone with a power so great no one dared to defy. Jane made her seem more human. More real. Within reach.

"My mother's art is conceptual, unlike that sculptor's, Jane," I looked back at the man.

"Which means she can use whatever she wants and put it wherever she wants, no matter how useless or stupid? Because, and I'm sorry to disappoint you, that's what Lady Gaga does with her clothes," I rolled my eyes.

" _Which means_ the idea of the work is more important than the work itself."

" _Which means_ , it's stupid. And unintelligible. How can I know what the work really means if its meaning is in your mothers brain?"

"That's actually a very interesting question, and the reason why conceptual art is so fascinating."

"I'm sure..."

"Even when seeing the same, people can have totally different feelings or thoughts."

"Yeah, that also happens with TJ's drawings. Because he can't draw, and you can mistake a dog for a truck. Is that art too?"

"You are really hard to talk to when you've made up your mind regarding any particular subject."

"I didn't hear you reply," she said in a singsong voice. I rolled my eyes.

"You know, you shouldn't be so unmerciful with my mother's work, given that we're here to see her."

" _You_ are here to see her. I'm just keeping you company."

" _That_ , and that you were out of beer. And milk. And, you know, anything edible," I raised my eyebrows, and turned to look at her with a satisfied smile.

"Well, yes, maybe the fact that the store was on your way helped me decide to tag along. You can't watch baseball without beer, anyway."

We wandered around the gallery for a while, until, finally, we caught a glimpse of my mother, who didn't seem in a hurry to retrieve the agenda she had (adamantly, urgently) asked me to bring back to her. We waited for her to finish talking with one of her colleagues, and looked to the paintings hung on the walls, ready for that night's opening. Predictably, Jane looked everywhere but at the explicit pictures.

"You really are a prude."

"Naked women, Maura!" she hissed in a whisper. "Naked women _having sex_!" her face was flushed.

"Calm down. This particular exposition's aim is to ascertain if the viewers accept heterosexual and homosexual relationships with the same ease."

"I sure as hell can't see one single painting with a heterosexual couple in it..." she mumbled, still not knowing where to fix her gaze.

"That was the first part of her work," I gestured toward the woman my mother was currently talking to, "Which was exhibited a couple of months ago. It didn't really cause any kind of disturbance, so if the outcome is different this time, her theory of society being wary and intolerant of gay people would be correct."

"Why couldn't she paint them just kissing or hugging?"

"She did that, too, but it may have escaped your attention because you've been looking at the ground for the past couple of minutes," I was undeniably amused.

"Well, why didn't she _limit_ to it?"

"The point of it all is to show a romantic relationship between people, Jane. Gay or not," my mother noticed us at last, and walked to us, "And sex is part of it."

"Maura, darling, thank you for coming," we greeted each other with a couple kisses on the cheek. I gave her the agenda. "And you, too, Jane."

"Yeah, sure," she smiled tightly at my mother.

"Is everything all right? You seem feverish," Jane reddened further.

"She's just uncomfortable, mother," I grinned.

"Oh, that's too bad!" the autor of the paintings joined us. "This," she waved her hand to the paintings, "Should be normalized, already! Hello, Maura," she said cheerfully.

"Jane is only embarrassed by the sexual content of your work, Laura."

"I see... I did try not to paint anything exceedingly revealing..." she said, almost to herself.

Jane widened her eyes comically as opened her mouth slightly. I chuckled and moved closer to her, so I could put my hand delicately under her chin, slowly closing her mouth myself.

"That's really unladylike," I told her, lightly brushing her cheek with my thumb. She jumped back, swatting my hand away, startling me, as well as my mother and Laura.

"I... Sorry," She said. "I'll... I'll wait outside?" she left the room, while the three of us tried to discover the reason behind such an exit.

"Your girlfriend _really_ is shy, isn't she?" Laura asked, eyebrow high on her forehead.

"What?" I shook my head, trying to focus again, "She's not my girlfriend," I waved my hand casually, "Maybe she doesn't like her cheek being touched, either? Or her chin..." I said to myself.

"She's not?" Laura seemed surprised, and looked at my mother, but I didn't pay it much attention.

"No. I'll better go, too. To see if she's okay," I turned to say goodbye to both women, and followed the same path Jane had disappeared to, moments before.

* * *

 _No touching list_

 _Hands_

 _Cheek? Chin? Both?_

* * *

A/N: It's been a while since last time, and will probably be until the next. Chapters will be light because, as I've said, this won't be a "deep" story with a good plot. Just something to kill some time, not really interesting, so if you're looking for a story with good development... I'll save you time. You're warned!

(Hope you enjoy it, at least.)


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